


I'm Not Complaining That It's Raining, I'm Just Saying That I'd Like it a Lot (the Clichéd Lyrics-Title Remix)

by Roga



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Rain, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's life has become a romantic comedy trope. Like everything else, it's Pete's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Complaining That It's Raining, I'm Just Saying That I'd Like it a Lot (the Clichéd Lyrics-Title Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsforscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsforscience/gifts).
  * Inspired by [don't rain on my parade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/74823) by [itsforscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsforscience/pseuds/itsforscience). 



> Thank you so much to **A** for the beta, **thedeadparrot** for prodding and brainstorming, **coricomile** and **tieleen** for straightening out my canon, and everyone else who agreed to answer my dumb questions along the way. And thanks **awesome** for writing such a fun story for me to play around with :-)

The first time anyone ever kisses Patrick is in the pouring rain. It should be romantic — first kisses in the rain, right? — except it's Pete, fucking Pete from fucking _Racetraitor_, who auditioned Patrick for his fucking _band_ just last week, and Patrick's maybe a little bit star struck so he barely even kisses back, just feels Pete's hot breath and Pete's lips tasting like rainwater for a moment before Pete steps back, grins at Patrick with delight, snatches Patrick's umbrella and _fucking runs away_.

For a moment Patrick just stands there, stunned. Rain beats down on his head, sliding down the brim of his cap, and he instinctively shields himself with whatever he's holding in his hand before he remembers that fuck, they're Joe's books, and hastily shoves them beneath his jacket, and all the while he's staring at Pete's retreating figure, skipping away with Patrick's umbrella like Gene Kelly. Patrick could not feel like more of a loser if he tried.

And then, all of a sudden, he hears a shout. "Laurie!"

Patrick spins left to see a guy who's standing across the street in a t-shirt, soaked to the bones. He's got one arm outstretched towards a girl wearing a long yellow dress, who's standing under a red umbrella like something out of a DVD cover, the folds of her dress flapping in the wind, frozen in the moment. The guy darts a glance at Patrick and returns his gaze to the girl. He looks like he worships the ground she walks on.

"The is stupid," the guy says raggedly, running a hand through his dripping hair. "Don't marry Bill. I love you. I've always—"

Patrick's eyes widen, and he doesn't even feel the rain anymore as he watches the girl fling her umbrella aside and wrap her arms around the guy's neck, push him up against the wall of a bus stop and kiss him like they're the only two people in the world.

"Wow," he breathes out. Up ahead, he notices that Pete has stopped to stare too, and when Pete catches him looking they share a glance, _shit, seriously, is this for real?_

And then the guy and — Laurie, Patrick guesses, break off the kiss, looking so happy it makes something clench in Patrick's heart. They cross the street towards him in a light jog, holding hands. "Thank you," Laurie says, her eyes shining.

"I didn't—" Patrick starts, helpless, but the guy interjects.

"We saw you, kissing in the rain, and it was — thank you. For reminding us."

And then they're walking away, and Patrick thinks, _well, at least my first kiss was romantic for **someone**_, and all of a sudden Pete Wentz is strolling back up to him and practically bouncing on his toes. "Patrick, Patrick!" Patrick can't help but notice that Pete is practically fucking _dry_. "Did you see that?"

Patrick gives him what he hopes is a cold look. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah, yes," Pete waves him off, "But seriously, did you _see_? We're a fucking inspiration!"

"Maybe to pedos who mack on underage high school students just to steal their umbrellas," Patrick mutters, but there's not much venom to it, because – he _saw_.

"Come on," Pete says, lifting his arm so the umbrella — _Patrick's_ umbrella — is shielding them both from the rain. "I'll walk you home."

"You're still a fucking creep," Patrick points out, and Pete sighs, "I know, I know." Patrick lets him walk him home anyway.

*

They're parked in a truck stop outside Ann Arbor, waiting for Joe to return with their coffees, when it starts to rain. The rain drums drums drums on the roof of the van; in the front seat, Andy curls deeper into himself, snoring, and from the back of the van Patrick stares out the window at the parking lot.

"Hey, remember when—" Pete asks.

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Like I could forget my initiation into the world of Pete Wentz, pain in the ass."

Pete hooks his head over Patrick's shoulder, staring outside with him, and Patrick can practically feel Pete's smile curving beside his ear. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. We gave someone their happy ending."

"We don't actually know that," Patrick retorts, but he remembers the smiles on the couple's faces and thinks, _we fucking did_.

"Dude, _look_." Pete points at a couple sitting in a window booth in the diner across the parking lot. The woman looks tired, staring into her coffee cup. The guy looks like he's about to cry. Pete presses his chin harder against Patrick's shoulder for a moment. "Think we can do it again?"

"What? Pete, no, that doesn't even make any sense."

"Come on," Pete wheedles, in the tone of voice that Patrick's getting better and better at resisting... most of the time. "Come on, Patrick. Just one kiss. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick—"

"Fuck, fine," Patrick gives in, and glares at Pete. "One kiss. And you're doing my laundry tonight if you're going to get me all wet."

Pete smacks a kiss to Patrick's cheek. "Doesn't count," he says immediately, and then he's out of the van, running across the parking lot in the rain, wretchedly hollering, "Patrick! Paaatriiiick!" like a tiny wet Marlon Brando with crazy emo hair.

Patrick curses and jumps out of the van. He barely manages to get out a "Pete—" before Pete is all up in his arms, drenched and clinging and kissing him like they've just reunited on top of the Empire State Building after six tragic months of separation.

"I love you, Patrick," Pete declares, and _why does Pete have to be so fucking **loud**_ flits through Patrick's mind before he remembers they have an audience.

"Down, boy," he murmurs at Pete, so Pete lets go of him enough to breathe and ask excitedly, "Are they looking?"

Patrick tries to be discreet as he gives the diner window a glance, and — to his surprise — the couple is staring back at them with a strange, soft look in their eyes. The woman slides a hand across the table, and the man grabs it like a lifeline, and — _huh_.

"They were looking," Patrick confirms, and kind of can't believe it actually worked, but. Pete's always had this way of warping the world around him. At least, as far as Patrick can tell, this time he's using it for good, and not evil.

Joe returns to the van carrying a cardboard cup holder with three cups of coffee balanced on. "Inside, lovebirds."

Patrick blushes. "We were just—"

"I don't want to know," Joe says flatly, handing each of them a cup of coffee and then sliding open the van door, climbing in.

Pete grins at Patrick. "We're magic, dude."

Pete looks so happy that Patrick can't help but smile back a little. "Maybe," he concedes, feeling his hands warming from the coffee, and climbs in after Pete, away from the rain.

*

It doesn't become their _Thing_. Or, well, it doesn't become their Thing officially, because it's not really the kind of thing that can _become_ an official Thing, kissing in the rain to inspire romance — who even _does_ that? — it's totally not a Thing, not even a thing, really.

Except it ends up happening again and again, and, to Patrick's astonishment, every single time, it _works_. In Atlanta, Pete grabs Patrick during an afternoon summer rainstorm, and ten feet away from them a high school kid gathers up the courage to kiss her boyfriend for the first time. In Minneapolis they kiss in a market square during a light morning drizzle, and an old woman exchanges a look with an argyle-clad grandpa, sighs, "Oh, _Fred_, we've wasted so many years," and kisses him on a low bench, almost sickeningly sweet. In Baltimore Patrick lets Pete kiss him in the fucking _snow_, flakes swirling down around them and Patrick's coat wrapped around Pete's back, and behind him he hears a choked cry; "Dusty!" When he turns around, he sees a huge leather-clad biker dipping a tall, tattooed man in a passionate kiss.

"Awesome," Pete breathes out, the word coming out in a puff of fog, and squeezes his hand in Patrick's.

"Let's go, dude, it's freezing out here," Patrick says.

*

It's — well. It doesn't _mean_ anything. It just makes people happy. Joe's a romantic and thinks it's ridiculous and awesome. Patrick's not sure Andy's even noticed. Patrick doesn't even bat an eyelash anymore, just exchanges a look with Pete when it's raining and there are forlorn couples milling around and smiles, makes sure there's a close place to dry off later, and follows Pete's lead to make a spectacle of himself.

It doesn't mean anything. They both still date and sleep around and have normal romantic relationships, or as normal as you can have when you're slowly getting more and more recognition, when your album's rising in the charts, when one of you is Pete Wentz.

It doesn't mean anything. They're just being good Samaritans, living out this utter, utter cliché that somehow moves people, somehow makes people react.

It's… well. It's just their thing.

*

They're in a small cafe in the Latin Quarter in Paris when it starts raining. It's amazing how quickly Pete's dark mood lifts, his eyes flying hopefully to Patrick's. Patrick quirks an eyebrow, sighs, "Duty calls," at Joe and Andy, and stands up, his chair dragging across cobblestones with a small screech. He pulls his beret down over his eyes to protect himself from the water as much as he can, and steps from under the café's outdoor rooflet into the open street. Pete's already snuck around the corner, so Patrick pretends he's just walking in the same direction.

Pete rounds the corner, stands stock still; he's elevated this scene into an art form by now. "Patrick," he whispers, and then louder, "Patrick, _je t'aime, je ne peux pas vivre sans toi, amour de ma vie_—" and for a moment Patrick freaks that Pete's going to pull out _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ because Pete _really_ does not know any real French but by that point Pete's already rushing at Patrick, almost breathless, and Patrick braces for impact. Pete knocks into him, and Patrick stumbles back but keeps his footing, clutches Pete's jacket and licks into his mouth, closing his eyes. His stomach pools with heat and rain hammers down around them and he can't bring himself to really care.

Pete's slow to break apart this time too. Somewhere beyond the buzzing in his ears, Patrick can hear different voices crying out in the street. "Ah, Maurice!" "Chloe!" "Jeanette, chere!" "Gilles, mon amour!"

Pete pulls back finally with a small groan, but he's laughing. "Hey," he says, nudging Patrick's shoulder with his nose, leaning in, then away.

Patrick breathes heavily. Pete's eyelashes are long and dark, wet with raindrops. Water trickles down his throat, his collarbone, the thin t-shirt he's wearing under his jacket; Patrick follows the wet trail down with his gaze before flicking his eyes up to meet Pete's again. Pete's eyes are crinkled at the corners; he's happy. There are five couples kissing in the rain around them.

Patrick smiles back at him, carefully. "Hey," he says, and thinks, _fuck_.

*

It still doesn't mean anything. It's just a tradition. Pete is Patrick's best friend, and he'd be a really crappy boyfriend, and they'd have an even worse breakup, and it'd totally fuck up the band, and — it's not like Patrick spends any time actually considering these issues; they're so self-evident that they don't even bear consideration.

The only reason Patrick finds himself looking forward to Seattle is that Seattle shows always have a fucking great crowd. It has nothing to do with the weather.

*

They're set out to fly out of Newark at just after midnight, going back to LA on the red-eye, when the storm starts. Thunder crashes outside, and Pete shivers at Patrick's side on the way to the airport, pulling his purple hood over his head. They quicken their pace, rolling their luggage until it's safely sheltered by a wall near the entrance.

Everyone else has already gone in, but Pete and Patrick linger outside, a scant few steps from the downpour.

Pete doesn't even ask, just gives Patrick a questioning look.

"Fuck. I really don't want to be wet on the plane," Patrick says, running a hand through his hair. He knows Pete can eventually convince him otherwise if he wants to, but. Fuck, he doesn't want to be wet on the plane. Fuck, he doesn't want to feel Pete panting against his skin, hair sticking to his forehead and water dripping into his face. And fuck, he doesn't want to have to draw back, to create those few stupid, artificial inches of space between them, to stop kissing Pete, _ever_.

Pete is nothing if not persistent though, and Patrick has never seen him pass up a chance for making out, platonic or not.

Pete doesn't care about getting wet. He just pouts — it's this really fucking huge pout, okay, Clint Eastwood would find it hard to resist — and says, "Come on, one good deed for the road? Karmic insurance against the plane crashing?"

And fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"All right, Casanova," he sighs, and buttons up his coat so at least his shirts'll manage to stay dry. Pete's returning grin is bright, and he steps into the rain, twirling like a freaking ballerina for a moment before making a come-hither face at Patrick which is _ridiculous_ but somehow also disturbingly hot. "My love—" Pete proclaims, and Patrick takes a step closer, exiting the sheltered bay and feeling the rain on his skin, and he's leaning in towards Pete when something swift and tiny _barrels_ into him, knocking him away from Pete with a shout of "Out of my way!".

Patrick manages to catch his footing, shocked. "What the _fuck_."

The few people who'd been looking fondly at Pete and Patrick turn their attention away too, to the small guy who's scrambling towards the Departures area, frantically pushing people aside and jumping over luggage like he's in a hurdle race.

"What the fuck, dude," Pete echoes, pulling Patrick inside, both of them grabbing their baggage on the way.

"Gee!" The guy is yelling. "Gerard, stop! _Stop that man!_"

The crowd clears away, and in the center of the clearing stands a man with long, dirty hair and a bone-patterned suitcase, and holy shit, Patrick recognizes him. "Frank?" Gerard asks, startled.

Frank leaps over a _stroller with a small child in it, Jesus, Iero_, and comes down near Gerard's feet, half falling and turning it into a ninja-roll before landing on his knees. "Gee," he pants, and then gulps, catching his breath. "Please." He lifts his eyes, begging. "Don't go."

Gerard's eyes are enormously wide. "Frank," he says in a small voice.

"Are you seeing this?" Patrick asks softly.

"Shit," Pete says, staring at the scene unfolding in front of them. The crowd is _riveted_. "Motherfucking cockblockers."

Patrick can't help a quiet snort. "Pete, I wasn't going to let you bone me in the airport in the fucking rain, Jesus."

"Shut up," Pete says, oddly flustered, "Just—" he waves his hands vaguely at Frank and Gerard, who are now making out fervently against the check in counter. Someone starts clapping. "Seriously?" Pete snaps at the air. "A slow clap? They are such a fucking cliché."

Patrick starts laughing. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

Pete scowls at him, before his expression melts into a pout. "Patrick," he whines. "My Chemical Romance stole our thunder."

"You have to admit," Patrick says. "It _is_ fucking romantic." And okay, maybe Frank isn't so much kissing Gerard now as he is molesting him like a spider monkey in heat, but other than a few parents shielding their children's eyes with their hands, most of the crowd is still applauding. It's pretty sweet.

Pete grumbles something incomprehensible, and then turns sharp, speculative eyes to Patrick. "You think it's romantic?"

Patrick sighs. "I mean, it's a total cliché, but…" He winces when he can't quite keep the wistful note out of his voice, but Pete doesn't seem to care.

"One might almost call it inspiring," Pete offers, and Patrick has to agree; the crowd is _still_ cheering loudly and he notes more than a few couples leaning into each other, swinging clasped hands with a smile on their faces. So he nods, smiling ruefully at Pete, and—

—then Pete's mouth is on his and Pete's fingers are in his hair and for a long, endless moment Patrick can't breathe.

When Pete draws back his lips are wet and shiny, curved up into an uncertain grin.

Patrick takes in one, two three breaths. "It's not raining," he says cautiously.

"No," Pete confirms, and when Patrick doesn't do anything to resist, Pete leans forward again and presses his lips to Patrick's with a small, content sound, as he curls a hand around the back of Patrick's neck. Nobody's paying them any attention. In the back of his mind, Patrick realizes it's the first time.

He can feel his heart beating faster, and deepens the kiss. "Hey," he murmurs into Pete's mouth, and Pete whines at the momentary lack of contact, clutching Patrick closer. "Are you just doing this so you can steal my umbrella again?"

He can feel Pete smile, his lips pushing at Patrick's again. "It's not raining."


End file.
